


Perfectly Nice Arguments

by hwbswd



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:35:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22687852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwbswd/pseuds/hwbswd
Summary: Flake and Till had been having a perfectly nice argument when things suddenly got weird.
Relationships: Till Lindemann/Christian Lorenz
Comments: 9
Kudos: 50





	Perfectly Nice Arguments

Flake and Till had been having a perfectly nice argument when things suddenly got weird. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder in a familiar pub, having a drink with their discussion.

Flake sipped at his beer. “We’re going to have to do something about ‘Biest’, no one is happy with it. But I can’t figure out how to salvage it.”

Till said, “I’ve been thinking about that. The overall emotion from the lyrics doesn’t match the instrumental vibe, and it’s not an interesting juxtaposition either. It’s just not quite coherent.” 

“True, but not the extent of its troubles. I think the instrumental is also not where it needs to be.”

“I’ll leave that up to you all,” Till said. “If we wanted to start over on the lyrics, you know I have lots of snippets rattling around. They’re not polished, of course.”

“Sounds like having a rock tumbler in your head.”

“Pretty much,” Till agreed affably. 

“Go on, then,” Flake prompted. 

Till had a distant look when he recited, unless he was trying to compose on the fly, and then he looked mildly agonized. Now he looked as if he was reading from a far-off page.

“How about,   
_Whatever loves me dies_  
_I don't need to suffer_  
_Whoever loves me comes to ruin,_ ”

Flake gave him a moment to return from his inner scribblings. “It’s interesting, for sure. It might be thematically too close to ‘Herzeleid’ for this album, though. And I can’t figure out how it would scan with the rhythm.”

Till nodded. “No argument from me. Another is,   
_The water shall be your mirror_  
_only when it is smooth shall you see_  
_how many stories you have remaining_  
_and for deliverance you will plead._ ”

Flake smiled. “Now you’re just messing with me. That’s way too pretty for the freakshow music we have now.” 

Till gave a snuffle of laughter. “Yeah, freakshow is a good way to put it. It sounds like a deranged organ grinder.”

“Well,” said Flake, “I am a deranged organ grinder.”

“Neither part of that describes you very well, I don’t think.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. You wanted a keyboard in this band, here I am.”

Till didn’t rise to the bait, but instead lightly nudged Flake with his elbow. “Are you defending the keyboard part just on principle?”

“A bit.” Flake nudged him back. “Are you fiddling with the lyrics just on principle?”

“A bit. What about this?   
_Under the navel in the boughs_  
_waits already a dream of white_  
_Brother dear, come hold tight_  
_and shake for me the leaves from the tree_.

If you think that would work.”

“Mmm, I don’t know, but I might love you enough to let you demonstrate,” Flake said absently. He hadn’t really been thinking about what he was saying, but he was yanked back to attention when Till flushed, hard and all at once, and then went deathly pale. Flake was afraid he was going to pass out, and for a moment he couldn’t figure out why. He had to replay the last few sentences to himself, and then he felt his ears getting unpleasantly warm. 

“Um, might not be right for this song, but hang on to it?” He was speaking somewhat at random, and peering at Till with trepidation.

Till cleared his throat. While Flake was speaking he looked like he had recovered slightly from the initial shock. His color wasn’t entirely back to normal, but he didn’t look quite so dire. 

Till’s voice was low and sincere. “I didn’t mean it like that, you know. Not until I said it. But I would, if you wanted.”

“...meep.”

  


* * *

Flake burst through his door, calling out, “Paul? Paul?” 

“What?” 

“Paul, where are you, something’s wrong!”

Paul hollered back, “It’s not like there’s anywhere to hide here, I’m in my room.” Flake had homed in on him by then, sitting on the bed, idly playing chords on the guitar on his lap.

Flake plopped to the floor beside him, still wearing his coat, hair even more of a mess than usual. He looked around rather wildly for a minute.

“Are you planning to tell me what’s going on, or just interrupt me?”

“It’s - I - The - Paul, please tell me you don’t fancy me too.”

Paul wrinkled his nose. “That’s - no? Why do you ask?”

“I think everyone else does. Till just asked me if I would like to come back to his place sometime.”

“What, just like that?” Paul sounded sceptical. 

“Well, not in those words. But he made himself clear.”

“Huh.” Paul considered. “He has always been kind of physical with you.”

“This was different, he was dead serious. We went for a drink, and we were talking about what the hell to do about ‘Biest’,”

“Uf, what the hell are we going to do about ‘Biest’,” Paul put in.

“He was trying out different lyrics, and things got weird all of a sudden.” 

“He was reciting his poetry to you?” 

Flake turned to look at Paul in horror, and then let his head thump against the mattress by Paul’s knee. “Oh no.” 

Paul inquired, “And when was this?”

“About ten minutes ago.” Flake groaned. “Ohh, this is bad, this is so bad.”

Paul meditatively twanged a low E. “I agree, that could be a problem. But you said something about ‘everyone’”?

“Well, I hope Schneider is over it, it’s been a while, but last year I think he tried to make a pass at me. He was so shy about it I pretended to not know what he meant.” 

“Was he drunk?”

“Not really.”

“Hmmm. Richard?”

“When we played in Hamburg, on the ride back he told me I was amazing and tried to put his hands down my trousers.”

“And then he was surly for the next week. You didn’t let him down gently, did you?” 

Flake threw up his arms. “How do you let someone down gently who has their hands in your pants?”

“I think I’m beginning to see the problem.”

“Ollie might be all right though…”

“Now that you mention it, has he been able to say anything to you recently without blushing?”

“Is that what it is? I thought he had better sense than that. What is  _ wrong  _ with everyone?”

Paul’s smile, which had been growing steadily, flowered into a grin. “I’ll tell you what: It’s your mystique.”

“I’m pretty sure guys who look like me don’t have mystique.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. It shows up when someone wants to please you, when they want to impress you.”

“I’m not that hard to please -”

Paul glanced patiently at the heavens. “Which is why it only took months to convince you to join the band. And then you’re like the schoolmaster who only gives praise for the biggest accomplishments, but when you  _ do  _ say that you like something everyone knows it really deserves it. It’s much more appealing than getting easy approval. It’s addictive. Plus you mostly say just your best ideas instead of all of them, so the average quality is high.”

Flake looked suspicious. “You’re sure you don’t like me that way too?”

“I promise I’m totally immune. Besides, if I was going to get all worked up over your gangly bones, don’t you think I’d have done it by now? I’ve known you for far too long to be impressed. Also you didn’t have the ‘aura of genius’ thing so much when you were younger, it was easier to see through it.”

“...I’ll take that in the spirit it was intended. You’re positive?”

“Completely. Look, I’ll prove it. Remember our dreadful basement flat?”

Flake did remember. “The one that running the oven and turning on the hall light at the same time would trip the breaker for the whole floor?” 

“Right, and the bathroom that locked people in instead of out. Anyway, we had that party for your eighteenth birthday, and you were completely plastered. I hadn’t seen you for a while so I started looking around, and when I found you, you had gotten locked in the bathroom. You were lying on the floor crying, and when I asked what was wrong, you said you were crying because you loved Brahms so much. And then you were sick in the bathtub.”

“God.” Flake looked aghast. 

“See what I mean?” 

They were quiet for a moment. Then Paul said,

“The trouble is, your usual response just makes it worse. You clam up and get even more aloof, which makes you seem intriguing, and instead of looking terrified, like you actually are, you just seem mildly agitated - like there might be some kind of deep, fascinating emotion trying to get to the surface. It confuses people.”

“Are you saying I’m a tease?”

“Not at all, you never act more interested than you are. But then you just keep on being...interesting.”

Flake leaned his head back onto the bed to look up at Paul. “So I need to be boring?”

“Either that or embarrassing, I think, which might actually be easier. Or you could just live with everyone carrying a torch for you for a while, I expect it will wear off. For most of them. Eventually.” 

“No, no, no, we have to do something about this. That is far too many torches to have around, something will end up on fire. Seriously, this kind of thing destroys bands.” 

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Now you care about the band’s long-term stability? And fire?” 

“Don’t start.”

“Alternatively, you could try to help them get it out of their systems faster. Burn the torches down, so to speak.”

“I’m really not seeing that helping. Besides, if we’re going to be a true democracy, favoritism will sink us. We can’t have subgroups that exclude others, or lasting alliances between members.”

Paul grinned insidiously. “So blowjobs for all, or blowjobs for none, is what you’re saying?” 

“Ugh. Thanks so much for your help.”

  


Flake wandered to the kitchen and grabbed a jar of pickles to snack on. Paul stuck out his tongue to express his opinion of that, but got himself a drink and loitered in the kitchen with Flake. “What did you say to Till?”

“Just now? I mumbled something and then ran away.” 

“Mm hm. I doubt he makes an offer like that lightly, so you’ll definitely have to talk to him, preferably soon. I’m not really sure what would help, though. I mean, you could tell him you weren’t looking for anything casual,”

“Which is true,” Flake interjected,

“But I doubt that he is either. Let’s start with an easier one.” 

“Ollie at least hasn’t said anything yet.”

“Yeah, that looks like puppy love to me, which can often cure itself. My guess is that you don’t need to address it directly, and that just getting to know you better would take some of the shine off. Make you seem more approachable, less of a mystery genius.” 

“Apparently I’m very approachable when drunk.”

“Mmm, maybe. Or what about a hike? Lots of time for friendly chat on a hike.”

“One, I’m not much of a mountaineer. Two, isn’t it a bit late in the year? Three, that just sounds like a date.”

Paul lit up. “An anti-date! Where he’s less adoring at the end than at the beginning!”

“Sometimes I think you just want me to do things I dislike.”

Paul shrugged, not denying it.

Flake nibbled the edge of a pickle. “Is Schneider cured, do you think?” 

Paul tapped his lower lip thoughtfully. “The thing about Schneider is that he wants approval from authority.” 

“How do you know that?”

“Remember that time I recorded an entire album with him, while you fucked off to Greece?” Flake had the grace to look abashed, though it had been entirely justified. He hadn’t been getting along with Aljoscha then, and there were bagpipes.

Paul continued, “Besides, he also joined the military, and tried to go to university. No, he was the same way with Aljoscha, for a while. Though it’s hard to keep that kind of idolatry going for Aljoscha at close range.”

“Well, I’m not going to start passing out during gigs.”

“Obviously. No, I think Schneider calls for a long game.”

Flake mused, “It’s odd that he slotted me into the role of authority. Why not Till? Why not you?” 

“I’m telling you, mystique.”

“You don’t think Till has mystique?” Flake asked.

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Maybe he’s not into either gorillas or leprechauns.” 

Flake snorted. “So, what’s the long game? Convince him I’m not an authority?”

“Even better, I think, would be weaning him off authorities altogether. I think it’s possible. You’ve noticed how he sometimes undercuts his own ideas? He lets us talk him out of things, and then we discover later that he was right all along.” 

“Okay then, encouraging Schneider’s confidence it is. What about Richard?”

“My guess is that he heard you loud and clear, and he’s had his sulk, and now the trick is getting him to warm back up to you but without giving the wrong idea.”

“Any ideas on how to achieve that, oh wise one?”

“Like I said, boring or embarrassing. But also friendly.”

Flake swirled the pickle juice dejectedly. “I’m really not cut out for this.”

Paul bumped his shoulder into Flake’s companionably. “Hey, this is normal for new bands, sometimes. Everyone’s so excited to be in, they haven’t yet gotten tired of each other’s flaws, and if they’re impulsive they pair up. Which is a bad long-term plan, as it only lasts until they break up or the rest of the band gets tired of being the third wheel. Often a bad short-term plan, too, since it makes for drama.”

Flake nodded. “Yes, I’ve seen it happen, too. And that makes sense for Ollie, and Richard, and maybe Schneider. But Till? We’ve been friends for years. I’m sure I’ve been embarrassing plenty of times.”

“Maybe it’s a musical thing.”

“What, like now that he sees first-hand what a god of the keyboard I am, I’m suddenly irresistible?” 

“Something like that.”

“We do sound good, all of us together.”

“I knew you’d like it once you joined.” 

Flake rolled his eyes. 

Paul was undeterred. “Come on. If we can manage to get along at all, the sound is really strong, and you know it. You just said it!” Paul sounded triumphant. 

“If.” Flake looked stony.

“Well, better not get complacent, then. You’re going to talk to Till first thing, right?” 

“Okay, okay. And I’ll try to be boring and embarrassing for the others. It’s like the idea that if you let your true self shine then everyone who gets to know you will love you, but in reverse.”

  


* * *

They were practicing, trying to overhaul one of the choruses that wouldn’t go right, when Richard noticed it. 

“Um, Till, is your wrist all right?” 

That brought the practice to a screeching halt while everyone gathered to look. Till had a cloth wrapped around his forearm, held with a strip of duct tape. And as Richard had noticed, it was stained and wet on the underside. 

“Flake, aren't you supposed to be the doctor?”

“No! I never even took a first aid class.” Then, in a flash of inspiration, he said, “Schneider, you did, though, right?” 

Schneider nodded, and said, “You want me to have a look?” Till shrugged more than nodded, but clearly practice was at an end until this was addressed, and offered Schneider his arm. 

“Is this a burn?” Nod. “Can I see?” Schneider started steering Till towards the bathroom. The bathroom attached to their practice space was tiny, and once Till was sitting on the toilet lid and Schneider was standing in front of the sink there wasn’t space for anyone else. The others crowded around the doorway. 

Schneider peeled off the duct tape, but found that the cloth underneath was stuck to the skin. “We’ll have to soak it off. Did you even wash it? This looks like a rag.” It did, it had dark grease smears on it. Till let Schnieder pull his arm under the faucet. Schneider turned on the tap, cold, and gently worked at the stuck edges under the flow. Eventually he revealed a white, raw, crescent-shaped burn the size of a thumb print, with oozy pink blisters fanning out from one side, fading to hot red at the far side. 

“Gross, Till.” That was Richard.

“I can’t even look.” From Flake. He wasn’t exaggerating, he felt a little sick.

Schneider ignored them. “We’ll have to wash it well. Warm water is best since you left grease all over, but that hurts like hell on a burn.”

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“No?” 

“What even happened?” asked Ollie.

“I was working on the car, and bumped the radiator cap, unfortunately it was loose. Stupid of me. It’s fascinating, though, isn't it, that the body and the mind can disagree with each other so much?”

“Oh?” 

“My body rejects the burn. It hates it, it will work tirelessly to heal it. But my mind has already accepted it as a part of myself, as no more or less than my due. We are two distinct entities forced to travel together, who are in fact a single being.”

“You think that injury is your due?”

“Not as a punishment, but as the cost of living, yes, in a way.”

“O-kay then.” Schneider was clearly not impressed. 

Paul chimed in, “You had better be writing that all down, oh great lyricist, rather than just getting burned for the hell of it.” Till looked thoughtful. “Hmm.” 

Schneider turned to the doorway. “You know, you don’t all need to stand there supervising, I’ve got it. See if you can find a first aid kit, there’s nothing under the sink here.”

Ollie found it eventually, in a cupboard behind one of the tangles of cables that always form around audio equipment. Everything in it was expired, but Schneider said that was all right, he just wanted the gauze. There was vaseline in a drawer, which caused no end of (mostly obscene) speculation about how it came to be there. Scrubbed, anointed, neatly bandaged, and strictly instructed about cleaning and covering the burn, Till was released. 

While Schneider washed his hands, Flake saw Richard turn on the vent fan and squeeze past to sit on the closed toilet and light a cigarette. Schneider looked pointedly at the prohibited smoke, Richard looked pointedly at the vent in the ceiling. 

“They teach you all that in the army?” Richard asked.

“It wasn’t good for much else.”

“That’s important, though, we need somebody around here with any sense.”

Schneider looked down. “Everyone here has plenty of sense.”

“As musicians, maybe. Have you seen these guys? We’re all useless. Look, just say ‘thank you’, I’m trying to give you a compliment.”

“Oh.” Schneider turned off the water. “Thank you.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard.” 

  


Paul and Flake waited for the bus together. 

Paul began, “So, Operation Schneider seems to be progressing well.” 

“I didn’t even do anything!” said Flake. “I just flailed around like usual. It’s a good thing Schneider is actually capable, Richard even noticed.” 

“I wonder what other surprises he’s hiding under there.”

“Probably anything covered in basic training, god knows what all that is.” Flake shuddered. 

“You mean standard life skills?” Paul lifted an eyebrow.

“You say that like I’m deficient. Isn’t the military very interested in guns, and tanks, and like, secret codes, and things? It’s not like you would know the first thing about those, either.” 

Paul shrugged one shoulder. “Fair. You didn’t talk to Till, did you?”

“He was kind of busy, if you didn’t notice.”

“Uh huh. You can’t leave him hanging.”

Flake sighed. “You’re right, it’s inconsiderate.”

  


When they got home, Flake found a series of tasks that needed to be done, until Paul said, “Quit putting it off. Look, I’ll even go out for a while, give you some privacy, but make it done.” 

“What do I even say?”

“You, at a loss for words?” Paul poked Flake in the ribs. “Tell him the truth. Try to not be too brutal.”

Flake dragged his feet, literally, on the carpet. Paul grabbed the phone, dialed, and after a couple rings said, “Till? It’s Paul. Flake wants to talk to you.” He handed Flake the receiver and headed for the door. 

“Hello, Flake.” Flake could hear Till smiling. “Since when is Paul your telephone secretary?”

“Since I was too slow in talking to you. But he’s just leaving now.” Paul answered his glare with a thumbs-up and closed the front door behind him. It suddenly seemed very quiet. 

Flake took a breath. “About what you said the other day,” but then nothing seemed to come after that. 

“Yes?” Till was now doing his ‘good listener’ act, which he thought was reassuring. In reality it was almost indistinguishable from his ‘stern’ act, where he flattened his vocal emotions to a gravelly monotone, and if Flake wasn’t familiar with the technique it would have been intimidating. 

Flake tried again. “I. Hnngh. Ok. Paul said to tell you the truth.” He took a breath. “I don’t know. That’s the truth, is that I don’t know. You’re a good friend, and I don’t want to jeopardize that. And I don’t want to unbalance the band. But - can I think about it?”

“Oh,” said Till, “Yes, of course.” He sounds slightly disappointed, but no worse. “As long as you like.”

  


When Paul poked his head through the front door, Flake hadn’t moved from the same spot on the couch. Paul was talking almost before he got the rest of himself inside. “Soooo, how did it go?”

Flake harrumphed. “Do I not get any privacy ever?”

“Sure, sure, as long as you got the job done and there are no hard feelings I need to tiptoe around.”

“I was honest.” 

Paul didn’t look completely convinced, but he left Flake to sit alone, unmoving, and stare at nothing until he finally rousted himself to bed.

  


* * *

A few days later Flake and Paul were spending a quiet weekend afternoon at home. The phone rang, Flake answered it because he was closer. 

“Yes?”

“Ah, Flake, it’s Richard. What do you know about toilets?”

“Toilets? Nothing. They flush--”

“Ours doesn’t. Do you have a big wrench?” Flake and Paul did, in fact, it had a storied and probably not entirely legal history. Flake dodged. “Doesn’t Till have tools?”

“He’s not picking up, if he’s gone to the gym he’ll be there all afternoon.”

“Schneider?” 

“He’s gone to visit his sister, and we already looked through his stuff, he doesn’t have anything big enough.”

“Oh. I suppose I can bring ours, if it doesn’t take too long.”

“Great.” Richard hung up before Flake could say anything else. 

Paul gave a questioning look. “Richard. He says their toilet is broken. I apparently agreed to take them our big wrench. Come with me?” 

Paul turned a page of his magazine. “No, thanks. This sounds like a perfect opportunity for you to impress them with your unimpressiveness.”

Flake started for the closet. “Seriously, why are all your ideas for me to do something unpleasant?”

  


Richard answered the door, cigarette in his fingers. “Hey. Ollie’s in the bathroom.” Ollie gave him a welcoming nod from the floor. He was wearing yellow dish gloves, and poking down the toilet with an unbent wire hanger. He had one bare foot on either side of the toilet, which put his bony knees up around his ears. 

Flake shoved a bottle of mouthwash to the side and hiked himself onto the counter. Ollie kept fishing around with the hanger. At least the water looked clear. After a few minutes of Ollie pushing the wire around, and not seeming inclined to say anything, Flake asked, “What’s down there?” 

Ollie cleared his throat awkwardly. “Dunno. I can’t even feel anything.” He scraped the wire around without looking up. “I just keep hoping we don’t have to take it apart. But I’m deluding myself at this point.” He sighed, and pulled the hanger out. 

“Isn’t Richard helping?”

Ollie kept his eyes on the toilet, and looked both self-conscious and mournful. “He thinks it’s gross.”

“Well, it is.”

“Yeah.” Ollie stood up. “But I think it has to come up.” He took off the tank lid and put it out of the way. Then he closed the valve on the wall. “We’re going to have to drain the tank and bowl somehow.” 

Flake would later swear that he didn’t know what came over him. He reached over and pressed down the flush lever. Ollie leapt up, and they both watched in horror as the water in the bowl rose, and rose, and began to cascade over the rim. Ollie stepped into the bathtub, and Flake pulled his feet up even though they were off the floor to begin with. The bathmat was holding back the flood for the moment, but it would be saturated soon. 

“Richard! Richard! Help!” 

Ollie sounded equally panicked. “We need a bucket, or a tub, or something!” 

Richard popped around the corner, took in the situation, and proclaimed, “Oh my god, that’s what you were supposed to  _ not  _ do!” 

“Don’t scold, just bring a bucket!”

Richard darted off, but it wasn’t going to be fast enough. Ollie pulled a towel from the rack, and said, “Make a dam.” Flake took a wriggling hop off the counter that landed his feet on a dry spot, and tried to corral the growing lake with the towel. 

Richard returned with a bowl. “Hey, that’s my towel!” 

Ollie reached out from his safe refuge in the tub and took the bowl from Richard’s offering hand. He started bailing out the toilet bowl, which created a wave that sloshed onto the floor. Flake grabbed another towel. Ollie held the full bowl, contemplating how to get rid of it without getting any on himself, then stepped up onto the edge of the tub before dumping it down the drain. While Flake was busy with the towel dam, Ollie was dipping water out of the toilet at top speed. 

As the tide started to turn, so to speak, Flake glanced at Ollie, then at Richard. Ollie was bracing himself with one long arm stretched over to the countertop, and Richard was still standing in the hall, taking a calming pull on his cigarette. “Can I just point out that this entire situation is ridiculous?” 

Richard just shook his head and wandered off. 

  


Crisis contained, Ollie wrung the last of the water out of the towel. Flake asked, “Did you pick Richard’s towel on purpose?”

“Maybe.” Ollie held a straight face, and Flake tried not to laugh, but it was hopeless. “A fair choice, I’d say.” 

Ollie held it together long enough to say, “By some miracle  _ my  _ towel was spared,” and then the smirk became a grin, became a giggle, became a belly laugh, and Flake had it worse because he was watching Ollie teeter on the edge of the tub, and he was still wearing the damn yellow rubber gloves. 

  


“It’s finally time for that wrench.”

“Good god, this is taking ages. How did I agree to this?” Flake grumbled as he handed over the tool. 

Ollie didn’t bother to answer, and started in on the nuts holding the toilet to the floor. Once they were free he tipped the whole thing forward, and he and Flake peered at the new hole in the floor. Nothing. 

“Oh, come on, there has to be something in there!” Flake craned over to look at the base of the toilet. “What’s that?” 

With rubbery thumb and forefinger Ollie pulled out a sodden bundle. He gingerly pulled at it until it became a dark square of terry cloth. 

Flake was incredulous. “A washcloth? All of that for just a washcloth?”

“Richard? Is this yours?” 

Richard reappeared. “Must be, it matches my towel. Which is also soaked in toilet water now.”

“Is there any point in asking how it got there?”

Richard shrugged vaguely. “Can you rinse them for me? Since you’re already wet.” 

Flake and Ollie looked at each other. Flake had stayed mostly dry up on the counter. Ollie’s pants were soaked to the knee, he had big wet splotches up his shirt. “You are both complete wimps,” Ollie announced. Richard and Flake shrugged in agreement. 

  


To replace the toilet Ollie tried to tip it back, but it wasn’t going to line up. “Can you lift the front?” Flake reluctantly hefted, but it was impossibly heavy. “Richard will have to do it.”

Ollie raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Do I look like I could lift anything heavier than a keyboard?”

Ollie sighed. “Richard!”

Richard looked at the two of them struggling, and announced, “You look like a pair of spiders trying to wrap up a giant fly.” And, okay, so he had a point, they were definitely the leggiest, spindliest members of the band. Flake let it back to the floor with a thunk, and in his place Richard and Ollie replaced the toilet with ease. 

Richard held his arms out, not touching anything. “Great, now I have to go boil my hands.”

“What about Ollie? Are you going to boil him?” Flake was curious. 

Richard’s smile was both sweet and menacing. “As soon as everything is put back together I’m sterilizing both of you with alcohol.” 

  


Which was how Flake found himself sitting between a freshly-showered Ollie and a smug, be-sunglassed Richard on their couch a while later, gesturing with a potent glass and trying to remember the lyrics to folk songs. Unfortunately, Ollie actually knew any folk songs, and so was always right. 

“How does the one about the cowgirl go?” 

Ollie tilted his head. “The cowgirl?”

“She goes to the market to sell her wares, something something about daisies…”

Richard started laughing, but Ollie looked perfectly innocent as he said, “That’s dairymaids you’re thinking of.”

“Same thing.”

“No, they’re really not.” 

“You sing it, then.”

Ollie got his bass, which sounded distant and tinny without an amp. It turned out he did know the song, and it was actually about a dairymaid after all. Richard joined in, playing nice folksy chords. Once Flake figured out the words he started singing along with Ollie, but replaced ‘dairymaid’ with ‘cowgirl’, to save face. Richard and Ollie tried to drown him out, but Flake had years of experience at singing over drunk people. Richard’s chords got harder and less folksy as he sang louder. 

Richard started adding little guitar licks around the verses. Ollie’s bass picked up some grace notes, and when they got to the part about picking daisies, he bellowed “Washcloths!” Flake hadn’t known Ollie could yell like that, and he had to take a swig of his drink to stop a giggling fit.

Things were sounding pretty good when Richard broke off to answer the phone. Flake and Ollie carried on. 

Richard held out the receiver. “It’s Paul, he’s asking if you got flushed down the can.” 

Flake took the phone. “Paul! Listen to our song!” He put the receiver on the floor, and they started again with the improved lyrics and instrumentation, singing extra loud so Paul could hear. Flake had been tapping out the keyboard line he wanted with his fingers, and he broke off singing the lyrics to try to sing the keyboard part. He had to transpose it down an octave, and it took a couple tries to get it right. 

One more verse about the cowgirl, and then Richard wanted a guitar solo. When he started winding down, Flake kicked Ollie’s ankle. “Your turn!” Richard dropped back into a steady rhythm, Ollie took over. Flake sang supportive little keyboard riffs. They transitioned smoothly back into the main chorus, Flake alternating between singing words and keyboard accents. Sometime in the second verse Paul let himself in the front door and came to sit on the floor. Flake waved cheerfully at him.

They brought things to a mostly-harmonious close, and looked expectantly at their audience. Paul grinned at them. “Is that ‘The Dairymaid Went to Market’? It’s very...punk.” 

Richard asked, “Did you like the solos?”

“You should hang up your phone.” Paul pointed to the receiver, still by Flake’s feet. “I rang off, you were going to serenade me all night otherwise.”

So then they had to make sure Paul got to hear their solos, of course. 

A good while later, Paul stuffed Flake into his coat, collected the wrench, and hauled them both out to the subway station. 

“Paul, I was very embarrassing, you should be proud.” 

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” Flake burped. “Ollie couldn’t possibly think I was competent after that. No mystique here. And Richard will be eternally grateful that I fixed his toilet, but in a nice, platonic way.” 

“He looked much better, yes. So did Ollie. Good work.”

“Does that mean I don’t have to go hiking?”

“Oh, all right.” Paul tried and failed to suppress a grin. “It would have been funny, though.”

  


* * *

The following Saturday, Flake and Paul visited Aljoscha. His squats kept getting overtaken, pushing him farther out to the city margin, and the current flat was in a building with half the numbers gone, which made it hard to find. There were at least four others living in the little apartment, it was crowded with boxes of junk, mattresses, and mismatched lamps. 

“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” He smirked at his cliche. “You want a drink?” He led them to what could be found of the kitchen and poured three vodkas, then knocked his own back before pouring another. “You two staying afloat? I worry about you out there.” 

“We’re hanging in there, our pockets haven’t been entirely picked by the capitalists yet.” Aljoscha chuckled and thumped them on the shoulders. 

By the time they left several hours later, Aljoscha had drank several more vodkas, and told them about the demise of his last several buildings at the hand of the free market. His collective was shrinking and being overrun, though he had gotten access to a new broadcasting rig. As it got dark he fumbled a match and lit a kerosene lamp, the flat’s power having been cut off. Paul and Flake were quiet as they made their way to the subway. 

  


They met the others at Richard, Ollie, and Schneider’s. Till asked after Aljoscha. 

“He’s still the same rebellious old drunk. I don’t know, he told us the same sad story he tells us every time, and was pretty hammered by the end.” Paul looked unhappy. “He hasn’t changed a bit.” 

Schneider and Ollie started puttering in the kitchen on dinner, aided by beers and Richard, who mostly seemed to be commentating. Till put the football match on with the sound low. Flake and Paul sat with him, but Paul didn’t seem to be paying much attention. By the time dinner was ready Paul was several drinks ahead of the rest of them. 

They ate with some sitting on the couch with their plates on their knees, some at the table, and some on bar stools, since nowhere in the flat could seat all six. 

After dinner Richard started messing around with his acoustic, Schneider and Ollie took over the couch, Flake bussed the dishes that were spread all over the place, and Paul and Till washed up. As Flake brought a load of cups over, he saw that Paul was swaying a little as he stood at the sink. Abruptly he said, “Till, what is that?” He sounded angry, and was pointing at Till’s hand. Till stuck his hand back in the dishwater, like he was looking for a spoon or something. Paul put out his own hand, demanding. Till produced his dripping hand, palm down. His index finger was bruised purple, and the nail was black. “This? It’s nothing. I dropped an amp on it earlier. It’s fine.” 

“So it was an accident?”

“Yes, of course.”

“That’s your second injury in two weeks.” Paul sounded belligerent. 

“Accidents happen, Paul.” 

“They just somehow always seem to happen to you. If it’s not an amp it’s a radiator cap, or a fishhook, or a door, or - look, none of the rest of you gotten hurt recently, have you?”

“I bumped my head the other day,” Ollie volunteered.

Paul rolled his eyes. “Of course you did.”

“Paul, really, it’s not a problem. I’m just clumsy, I guess.” Till sounded placating. 

“Yeah? And when is it a problem?”

“It’s just not.”

Ollie had left the couch to lean against the fridge. “It’s a fair question, Till. How bad does it have to be to be a problem?”

Till thought for a second. “Permanent damage, or temporary debilitation. Those would be problems. Those aren’t happening here.”

“Would you even tell us if they were?” Paul was seriously upset now, flushed and shaking. Flake put a hand on Paul’s arm, but Paul shook him off. 

“There’s nothing to tell.” 

“Don’t - Don’t fucking lie to me!” Paul looked like he was ready to take a swing at Till, which under other circumstances would be funny as he only came up to his chin. 

“Hey, Paul, rein it in.” Richard was there, helping block Paul in with his shoulder, and Flake was grateful for the backup. “Come on, let’s go have a smoke or something.” 

Paul was having none of it. Eyes hot on Till, he spat, “If you’re going to self-destruct, I’m out. Seriously, I want nothing to do with you if that’s how it’s going to be.”

Flake was shocked. “Paul!” At the same time Richard said, “That’s really enough,” and Schneider put himself in front of Paul, cutting off his line of sight to Till. Ollie commanded from the far end of the kitchen, “Till, trade me places”. The three of them boxed Paul in while Ollie hustled Till out of the kitchen. As they went they both glanced back, Ollie with his face full of concern, but Flake couldn’t read Till’s face beyond a vague expression of sorrow. 

  


They got Paul out onto the balcony, and true to his word Richard produced cigarettes. Paul calmed into a clenched-jaw silence as soon as they left the warmth of the flat, and smoked his in record time. Flake handed Paul his own, he hadn’t ever lit it. The night was cold, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to let Paul back in quite yet. Flake was freezing, though, so after a few more minutes he eased back inside and grabbed the blanket off the couch. He handed it to Schneider, who accepted it impassively, and went back in. 

Ollie was at the sink, finishing the dishes. 

“Where’s Till?” 

Ollie paused. “I put him in my room. The hell was that?”

“I’m not entirely sure.” Flake picked up Paul’s abandoned dishtowel and dried a couple clean plates. “Fuckhead.” 

Ollie nodded sagely, and went back to washing. 

  


Flake peeked out the balcony door. Richard and Schneider had Paul between them, with the blanket wrapped around all three of their shoulders. They didn’t seem to be talking, just standing and smoking in their cocoon. 

He found Till sitting on Ollie’s bed, staring at his hands. His finger, in particular. When he looked up, his expression was so dejected that Flake blurted out, “I’m sorry Paul was such a shit.” 

“Not your fault.”

“No, but...I’m sorry anyway. That the evening was ruined, and that he was a dick to you.”

Till glanced up at him through his hair, then back down. “Don’t be too grim. That’s my job.”

Flake didn’t really know what to say to that, so he instead he said, “I’m going to take him home now,” and on an impulse he bent and dropped a quick kiss to Till’s temple before leaving. 

  


* * *

Paul slept late, like he had spent his energies all at once. And also like he was very hungover. When Flake started to hear signs of life, he put the kettle on and got out three mugs. He made three cups of tea, sweetened one of them, and then left all of them on Paul's nightstand. Then he went out and waited.

After some while Paul tottered out, with two empty mugs in one hand and one in progress in the other. Flake traded the empties for a cheese sandwich. This wasn’t all strictly necessary, but it usually hastened Paul's revival by several hours. The sandwich and tea disappeared, so Paul was scheduled to be back online any minute.

"You make things so difficult sometimes," Flake found himself saying. The plan had been to wait Paul out, which usually took about fifteen seconds, but so much for that.

"So do you." Paul didn’t sound angry any more, just matter of fact and tired.

"Me? It's you that went off on Till."

Paul grimaced. "Look, Operation Till isn't going well, is it. I mean, he's not losing interest at all."

"So? You don't have to yell at him."

"That's just what I mean."

"I'm confused. Till's always had a suspiciously high accident rate, for all the years we've known him, but it never seemed to bother you before."

Paul gave him a hard look. "It doesn't bother you? Not even now?"

Flake shrugged. He was trying not to think about it too much. "But what's changed to make it so concerning all of a sudden?"

"You didn't used to like him so much!" Paul slapped his hands over his own mouth as if to stuff back in the words that have already escaped. Flake blinked at him. He probably looked like an owl, he thought. When he didn’t say anything, Paul cautiously took his hands off his mouth. 

"Sorry. It's true, though, isn't it? And neither of you is looking for something casual, but that doesn’t help, you know how Till’s romantic relationships always go.”

Badly. Flake couldn’t deny that they always went badly, and usually in a hurry. 

Paul continued, like now that he had started he couldn’t stop. “I mean, this is starting to look like the best band I've ever seen, and also the most likely to blow up in our faces. I don't know what you said when you talked to him before, but clearly it didn’t cut it. Maybe you  _ should  _ try just getting it out of his system. Talk to him, bed him, whatever. Burn the torch down. Try to do it without singeing your fingers, I guess. Then at least if the fallout is going to kill the band it will do it soon."

  


Everyone looked a bit wary at their next practice. While they set up, Paul cornered Till. "A word?" Till nodded, and let Paul lead him to a quiet spot by the door. The others glanced over occasionally, there wasn’t really anywhere in their practice space to have a private conversation, but if they didn’t talk too loudly it at least took effort to overhear. 

"I - I'm sorry. I was way out of line. I was drunk, but that's no excuse."

Till took a long time to answer. "You scared the shit out of me."

A little of the tension left Paul's shoulders. "Oh thank God, I was afraid you were going to try to act like everything is fine, and you didn't mind, and then we could never really talk about it. Am I that scary? I'm pretty sure you could beat me up with one hand."

"No, that's not it, that's not the scary part.” Till broke eye contact to look at the wall behind Paul’s shoulder. “It's the part where you said you don't want anything to do with me."

Paul opened his mouth, but for once Till was faster. "Is it true?"

Paul was shaking his head before words started coming out. "No. No. No. Never."

"Then...why?"

"It's just that, sometimes, you scare me, too. Because I don’t like watching my friends have bad things happen to them.”

Till turned his gaze back to Paul. “In that sentence am I the friend, or the bad things?”

“Both.”

“And Aljoscha?”

“Yes, he’s also both.” Paul pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Shit, I’m such an idiot.”

“I don’t think it’s very likely that I’ll end up like Aljoscha, if it’s any help. What about Flake?”

Paul shook his head again. “You know what used to really scare me about Aljoscha? That Flake might go with him. He was always so...invested in Aljoscha’s vision. I mean, we both were, for a while, but Flake was more of a believer. I felt responsible for him, he was such a kid at first, and it wasn’t like Aljoscha was going to be. Responsible, I mean. 

“And it was great when we were young. But later, I could just imagine myself visiting the two of them, like we visit Aljoscha now, in some mess somewhere. 

“So even though now Flake may never really forgive himself for abandoning the East and becoming a degenerate capitalist, I’m...mortifyingly grateful, honestly, that he didn’t decide to sacrifice himself on the altar of idealism. And the hell of it is, I don’t think Aljoscha’s wrong, not about any of it. But it still hurts to watch him suffer for it, even though it’s entirely what he wants.”

Paul paused and refocused his eyes in the present after this speech. “Ugh, Flake is going to give me so much shit for telling you all that.”

Till said steadily, “Thank you. For telling me.”

“What, for running my mouth and being a shithead? I can do that approximately forever.”

Till gave him a small, rather tight smile. 

Paul dove back in, speaking rapidly. “Look, I’m never going to be happy about it, but I know it’s completely none of my business and I don’t want to be a jerk about it. If you say it’s under control, I have to believe you.” 

Till looked like he might have responded, but Paul plowed on.

“And now that I’ve really exhausted your patience, could I ask a favor?” Till inclined his head. “If it gets worse, the accidents, if they’re ever worse, would you at least tell one of us? I don’t want to patronize you or fight with you about it, but if I knew that you would tell me if there’s something I need to know, then I wouldn’t have to fret. About that at least.”

Till pondered a moment. “Yes, I can do that. I promise.” 

Paul looked like he was trying to be equally solemn, but his natural buoyancy was returning. “Thanks for hearing me out. You didn’t have to.” He smiled at Till. “You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had, and I’d like to keep it that way. If you would.”

Till’s smile in return was so warm and brilliant that it seemed to Flake like the lights in the room got brighter. “I’d like that, yes.”

Paul beamed back at him, and they went to rejoin the others. 

  


It wasn’t their best practice ever, but there was such a sense of relief in the room that everything felt easy. Even when Richard screwed up the same riff twice in a row, no one was annoyed, and instead on the third repetition, Paul assisted by  _ singing  _ the riff, which sounded so terrible that Schneider fluffed the kick and Ollie laughed so hard he had to sit down. 

  


As Flake packed up, Till found him. “Are you doing all right?”

Flake frowned. “Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”

Till sat, straddling a chair, hands on the back. “Paul was upset that Aljoscha’s not doing well. I thought you might be too.”

“Oh. I’m fine.” Flake paused and contemplated his next words. “This is hard to explain. I think I distanced myself from Aljoscha before Paul did. Maybe he never really did. But Aljoscha doesn’t exactly reward loyalty. You either follow him, or you don’t. That could have been all right, but we were getting farther and farther apart musically, and I’m too stubborn to follow where I don’t want to go.” Till guffawed at that. 

“So that made it easier to pull back. And it was a relief. If you care, then you get upset every time he gets kicked out, or drinks himself blind instead of showing up, or pins his hopes on another crazy scheme. Instead, it lets me remember the good times as happy, and not...not contaminate them with anger or sadness or resentment. Maybe Paul’s just stronger than I am, because I couldn’t keep caring about Aljoscha and keep myself in one piece.” 

Flake sniffed loudly, then finished rather sheepishly, “Obviously, I do care a lot still.” He took off his glasses and cleaned them on his shirt. “But what about you?” 

For a moment Till seemed to not understand the question. Finally he answered, “I’ve been somewhat...terrified...the last day or so. Better now. But I was afraid Paul really was done with me, and then I’d have lost him, and you, and the band, all in one fuckup.” 

Flake looked at Till’s hands on the chair back, then, feeling very brave, reached out to cover one with his own. “I’m harder to get rid of than that. Paul is too, unless I kill him for being an ass to my friends.” 

  


At the bus stop, Flake said, “So, uh, there’s not really any privacy in that room, is there?”

“I think I could tell you exactly who is taking a piss by sound alone.” Paul replied.

“I wish you hadn’t told me that.” Flake tried to get back on track. “You know, you don’t have to worry about me so much. I won’t do anything stupid, unless it’s for a good reason.”

“That sounded less reassuring than you probably thought it did.” Paul looked nonplussed. 

“Come on, you know what a wimp I am. I go to great lengths to protect myself from discomfort of any kind.”

“We’re talking about Till, right?” 

“Yes, and how I don’t volunteer for suffering if I can help it. I don’t like it at all. I want my friends around me, and I want them to be genuinely content so there’s no more conflict than necessary. It’s entirely selfish. I know exactly how much I have to offer a relationship, and I never promise more. You know that.” 

Paul nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. I do. I also know that you never offer less, either.”

“Well, no, what would be the point of that?” Flake replied.

Paul didn’t have an answer to that.

  


* * *

Friday morning, Paul announced he was thinking of taking Emil to visit his grandparents that weekend. Saturday morning he set off, and Saturday night found Flake sitting alone with a record on. When Till called and asked to come over Flake couldn’t tell if he was angry, or sad, or just lonely. 

When Till arrived he closed the door behind him, but instead of coming in like usual he stood with his back against the door, in the dim entry with Paul and Flake’s winter boots against the wall. 

“Till? What is it?” Flake approached him, initially impatiently, then with more concern. Till hadn’t yet met his eyes, just glowered silently. Flake took a step closer, and finally Till looked at him, holding eye contact for a little longer than was strictly safe. His expression, Flake decided, was ‘pleading’. As soon as he thought it, Till glanced down again and raised both his hands, palms up, in an unmistakable plea, almost a genuflection. 

At a loss, with his heart starting to speed up, Flake put his hands onto Till’s. He didn’t put any pressure on them, just rested them lightly, but Till sank to his knees as if he was being forced down. Flake said, inanely, “You’ll get mud on your pants there,” and finally Till’s hands tightened around his own. Oh. “Oh.” 

It was an odd position, it put Till’s hands nearly above his head, and he was still looking down, back bowed. Flake wondered if he should kneel too, but Till wasn’t pulling down at all on their joined hands, just holding on. Clinging. Till swallowed audibly, and made a raspy noise like he was trying to say something, but instead he brought one of Flake’s hands closer and drily pressed his lips against the knuckles. “Please,” he whispered, but it seemed very loud over the rush of traffic outside. He tried more determinedly at clearing his throat. “Please.” 

“Oh,” said Flake again, which didn’t really seem adequate. “Not like this.” Till managed a quizzical look up through his hair, and that gave Flake the courage to say again, “Not like this. Come on, up,” and pull Till back to his feet. Facing each other, Till still holding tight to his hands, Flake took the last step towards him, and, before he went completely cross-eyed, put his cheek against Till’s. He inhaled, trying to get his bearings on the situation. Very quietly, but probably right in Till’s ear, he said, “Aren’t you going to take your shoes off?” It was such a stupid thing to say, he could feel Till crack a tiny smile, so that was a relief at any rate. 

After another moment Till pulled back, sliding his cheek against Flake’s. He must have just shaved, he felt smooth against Flake’s stubble. Till’s knees were shaking, Flake realized, he was quietly shivering inside his coat. 

So slowly it felt like they would forever be moving millimeters at a time, Till turned his face to Flake, then closer. Now that he was paying attention, he noticed Till’s hands were shaking, too. Slowly, slowly, like he was being moved by huge opposing forces almost evenly balanced, Till brought his mouth to Flake’s, like he had kissed his hand a moment ago, just gently pressing them together. Flake hadn’t ever before kissed someone who was as tall as himself. It was oddly comfortable. 

They stood like that for another short eternity, not moving, breathing softly. As his brain caught up with the rest of him, Flake began to notice the absurdity of it - him in his socks, Till still dressed from outside, a cold draft from the door, the light from the living room lamp slanting across the entryway’s linoleum, and the two of them with their hands gripped together beside them, standing stock still. Apparently his brain was still behind his mouth, though, because without planning to he pulled away and said, “Would you like to kiss somewhere other than on my doormat?” 

They ended up in Flake’s bedroom, Till having managed along the way to take his coat and shoes off. He seemed rather at a loss as to what to do next, though, as soon as they were out of the public areas. Flake supposed he wasn’t being any help either. But Till was meeting his eyes now, which seemed like a good sign. Or something. 

Flake switched the lamp on and backed towards the bed. Till followed, just out of arm’s reach. He had that look again. Flake sat on the edge of the bed, and Till dropped to his knees, faster than Flake sat, so that he was never looming over him and now had to actually look up a little to keep eye contact. He put his hands on Flake’s knees, and then slid them up his thighs, to his hips, around his back, and then pushed himself between Flake’s legs to tuck his head on his chest. Flake wrapped an arm around his shoulders, it seemed only polite. 

Till dragged his hands down Flake’s back to his waist, the hem of his sweater. He looked up again, exhaled slowly, and with the last of his breath whispered, “Can I…?”

Flake wasn’t quite sure what he was agreeing to, but nodded anyway, and Till slid his hands under the sweater and peeled it off, careful to not disturb Flake’s glasses as it came over his head. For symmetry, Flake started in on Till’s shirt buttons, and all the while Till was watching his face. Around the second button there was space for him to get his hand inside Till’s shirt and flat onto his chest, which distracted him for a bit. At the third button Till started to move his hands, just rubbing up and down Flake’s sides at first, and by the last button he swiped his thumb over a nipple and that was...wow. Flake pushed Till’s shirt off his shoulders.

Apparently whatever was happening on Flake’s face was reassuring enough, because Till kissed his collarbone, softly, but with a bit of heat. And then his sternum, and then his ribs, and Flake could understand why, he really didn’t have much more than bones to him no matter where you touched. 

And then his hip, and below his navel, and his other hipbone, and Till gave him a quick questioning look and got another nod before opening his belt. As Flake stood to get out of his pants, Till stayed kneeling with his arms wrapped around Flake’s waist. He could feel Till’s heartbeat pounding against his skin, his hair and breath both were soft against his belly. And then he was back on the bed, lying back, and Till was half on and half off it. His hands were around his hips and his mouth was warm and it was forever, it was an instant, it was a perfectly normal amount of time and Flake was spasming and Till was swallowing and then stroking a warm firm hand up to his shoulder blade. 

Flake found that he had landed one hand on Till’s shoulder and one on his neck, and he dragged him up onto the bed with both, kissing the top of his head, his eyebrow, and his cheek as they each came into range. Then he could reach Till’s fly and got the button open, but he wanted those pants  _ off  _ so he had to sit up to help. 

Till looked as dazed as he felt, and the tremor in his hands was back. Their legs had gotten so tangled now that laying back down seemed like clearly the best option. Lying on their sides, one heavy thigh between Flake’s, Till kissed him on the mouth again. This time he was moving against his lips, but so carefully, mouth closed. His erection was firm between them on Flake’s belly, just inside his hip. Pulled close against Till’s chest, his pulse seemed to be everywhere, like being submerged in a small warm ocean. Flake kissed back more insistently, and ran his fingertips up the back of Till’s neck to cradle his head. 

Eventually Till started to thrust, hips squeezed tight up to Flake’s, sturdy hand in the small of his back to keep from rolling him over. The tempo was slow, matching his deep breaths. The radiator ticked quietly. After a few minutes Flake tried an experimental lick of Till’s lip, which seemed to go well, so he moved on to a soft bite. Till’s rhythm faltered and stuttered, so Flake did it again, and Till was thrusting once, twice, and again, and with a noise like a hiccup against Flake’s mouth, coming slickly between their tightly pressed skin. 

  


Later they lay face to face, not touching, Till’s expression still watchful, inscrutable. Flake had put his glasses on the nightstand, so everything farther than Till was blurry. He reached out to rest his palm on the side of Till’s neck under his ear, with his thumb on his cheekbone. There was no way to make this easier.

“I’m not the person you need,” he said. “I wish I was. But I can’t be. Not emotionally, not sexually. Your masochism, the pain, the submission thing, I can’t follow you there. Your paths take you through wilder places than I can go. I think this is the part where I’m supposed to say, ‘You don’t have to be so careful with me, I won’t break,’ but I will.” 

Till said softly, “I know,” and as he blinked a little puddle formed by the bridge of his nose. Flake reached his thumb up to wipe at it, and said “Oh, Till, I’m so sorry,” and then had to swallow the tightness in his throat before he could talk again. “If I thought it could work, I would trade everything for this. But you need someone who can walk those dark valleys with you, and I think the best I can do is welcome you when you get back. And that’s not enough for a life. Two lives.” 

“I know,” Till said again. Flake was beginning to worry that Till wouldn’t say more than two words at a time ever again. 

But then Till tried a rather wavery smile under Flake’s wrist, and said, “But maybe you could help me tell about the journey.” 

Flake frowned. “You’re the poet...:”

“Words aren’t the only language. That’s the whole point of music, and you speak a beautifully expressive dialect of it. Besides, I’m hardly the only person with something worthwhile to say. We could tell all kinds of stories together.” 

Flake attempted to smile back. He found that though it was hard, it went better than he expected. “I like that idea. But we might need some help.” 

“I think you might be right. Fortunately I know just the guys.” 

  


Now that he was back to verbal, Flake could tell Till was working up to say something. He nudged Till’s knee with his own to encourage him.

“Flake, is this going to make things weird between us?”

“Hmm. Not for me, I don’t think. Because I don’t want it to.” He waited for his thoughts to cohere. “And because that would mean wishing that things were different somehow, wishing we were different. You know me, I’m too much of a realist for that.” 

Till was getting better at smiling. “It’s kind of unnerving how good you are at saying the right thing, sometimes.”

“I’ll remind you of that when I say something really stupid five minutes from now.” 

“I mean it.” Till looked grave. “And I agree with you completely.”

“You’re not much of a realist.”

Till nodded on the pillow. “You’re right, I’m a cynic. And a romantic. But between the two it’s almost the same thing. And I like you too much to wish you were different than you are.” 

Flake blinked hard a couple times. “Now who’s good at saying the right thing? That’s one of the nicest things anyone’s ever told me. Which is kind of odd, considering the circumstances.”

“It’s the same thing you just said?”

“I said I’m too much of a realist to wish, you said you like me too much. Not quite the same. But it’s true, I like you too much to wish you were any other way, too.” 

  


It was late, Flake kept dozing off and then waking up abruptly, so finally he said, “Look, do you want to stay here? Just for tonight.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I slept on your couch.”

“Don’t be dim, you know I meant in the bed.”

“That...would be nice.”

Flake put him into one of his bigger sweaters, which strained a bit across the shoulders but miraculously looked like a totally different garment than on Flake. He didn’t have pajama pants that were even close to fitting Till, though, and he’d just have to sleep in boxers. 

In the morning he made coffee and boiled eggs and bread with jam, and said, “Don’t you think we should try ‘Der Meister’ a little slower? The keyboard part is so frothy the only thing holding it down is Ollie. I could change it, but we already got it past everyone, and it really does have to contrast with the guitar line.”

Till pondered. “Maybe, but the lyrics are so squared-up I’m afraid that if we drop the tempo it will sound like a dirge.”

That discussion was enough to get them through breakfast and washing the dishes, so that when Till said, “See you for practice tomorrow, then?” it felt almost normal. And if they hugged all the air out of each other at the door, and then tried not to notice that the other looked a little damp around the eyes, well, who was there to see?

  


* * *

When Paul returned in the evening looking both well-fed and harried, the flat was clean and the groceries were put up. 

Flake greeted him from his favorite armchair. “Did Emil charm your parents as much as usual?”

“Until they were charmed into exhaustion. I had to run laps with him around the block.” 

“And your mother is well?”

“Quite. She sends you her regards.” Flake nodded a solemn acknowledgement, he was fond of Paul’s mother. Paul sat on the couch arm, then flopped backwards to lie with his feet dangling off. “And how is Operation Till? Any progress in extinguishing the flames?”

“I...think so, yes.”

“Wait, really?” Paul levered his head up off the couch cushions. “That’s dramatic! And how did you achieve this remarkable development?”

“You’re so nosy.”

“Wha- Oho, I see!” Paul grinned. When he glanced over at Flake, though, his grin faded. “Did it go badly?” 

“No, I-, yes, but- ”

“Tell me you didn’t break his heart? That’s not going to help us at all.”

“Does it count if it was mutual?”

“What, he broke your heart, too?”

“We...there was no other way. But I think it will be alright. It was kind enough. Honestly, it’s a better outcome than I was hoping for. For us to be together like that, it would be like me trying to ski on my hands instead of my feet. It would be difficult at best, and dangerous at worst. That was always clear, I think.” 

“And you couldn’t figure that all out without…” Paul gestured, flopping his hand in circles.

Flake shook his head. “Like I said, I don’t seek out unnecessary pain and suffering. Well, this was the minimum possible. Plus, sometimes Till needs demonstrations of love. I think he got the message.” 

“And back to topics I don’t have to plug my ears for, this is really all okay?”

“That’s what I keep saying. I mean, I’ve been better, but not so terrible considering the broken heart.”

“And Till?” 

“We talked, we’re on the same page. You know, we have a very good relationship in almost every other way, Till and I. We want the same things. We understand each other well, we care very much for each other. This way, I hope to look forward to a long future of playing music with my best friends. Instead of fearing the imminent crash.”

Paul looked thoughtful for a few moments. Then he said, “That sounds exhaustingly mature. Do you want a hot toddy and a bath?”

That was Paul’s best trick for soothing Flake, and he was rather touched by the offer. “Please.” He also suspected that Paul thought it was funny how his legs didn’t really fit in the tub without folding up, but what are friends for, after all.

  
  


One more practice.

Richard was lounging on the ratty couch cradling his guitar while Schneider set up. “What do you think would happen if Paul actually tried to fight Till?”

Schneider swiveled his seat around behind the kit. “In my professional opinion, while Till has an obvious advantage in both strength and reach, Paul is more motivated.” 

Flake added, “And has fewer scruples about hitting people.”

From the other side of the room, Paul objected, “Hey! I haven’t punched anyone since I was young and stupid!”

Schneider continued, “So my guess is that Paul would break Till’s nose with his first punch, and then Till would restrain him. Probably by sitting on him.”

“Sounds about right.”

Ollie was running a cable, but he paused next to Flake. “Hey. You good?” 

Flake nodded. “Yeah. Is it that obvious?”

“Kind of.” Ollie went back to his cable.

  


Paul slung his guitar onto his back while he took the chance to question Till. 

“Are you as okay as Flake says he is?” 

Till’s eyes crinkled. “If he says he’s doing okay, he must really be fine.”

“Yeah, it’s not like he’s ever been stoical in his life.” Flake made a face at them across the room from over the keyboard. Paul prompted, “So I take it that way was a dead end, with Flake?”

Till looked thoughtful. “More like a scenic detour, maybe.”

Paul held up a hand. “Congratulations, that is exactly the perfect amount of information, please never tell me more details.” That startled a laugh out of Till. Paul pressed on, “Fine, great, I’m butting out now, just checking that nobody is miserable or pining or anything.”

Till glanced past Paul’s shoulder, across the room to where Flake was standing, and then flicked his eyes in the direction of the couch where Ollie had joined Richard to chat with Schneider, all of them carefully not looking their way, trying to give them any semblance of privacy. 

“That would be foolish, pining for things I already have, for the most part.”

Paul shook his head slightly. “You two have the weirdest ideas about what makes a happy ending.”

Till lifted one corner of his mouth.“Would it make more sense if you called it a happy beginning?”

Paul said, “No, that makes it even weirder,” but he was smiling, too.

Till ambled towards the mike stand. “That’s what it is, I think. A happy beginning, just for a different story.” He looked around at the other five, each with an instrument. “You all ready?”

And so they got started. 


End file.
